


and I will never be set free (the Samantha remix)

by embroiderama



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Genderswap, Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-01-19
Updated: 2010-01-19
Packaged: 2017-10-06 11:30:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,494
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/53215
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/embroiderama/pseuds/embroiderama
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam hates her life and hates herself and sometimes she even hates Dean.</p>
            </blockquote>





	and I will never be set free (the Samantha remix)

**Author's Note:**

> I really enjoyed going somewhere different from my usual with this story. Thanks to the mods and [](http://velvetine01.livejournal.com/profile)[**velvetine01**](http://velvetine01.livejournal.com/) and thanks to [](http://elmathelas.livejournal.com/profile)[**elmathelas**](http://elmathelas.livejournal.com/) and [](http://musesfool.livejournal.com/profile)[**musesfool**](http://musesfool.livejournal.com/) for the beta. Originally written for [](http://community.livejournal.com/kamikazeremix/profile)[**kamikazeremix**](http://community.livejournal.com/kamikazeremix/) and posted [here](http://community.livejournal.com/kamikazeremix/17913.html).

Dean watches her, sure, watches her like she's still a baby who might wander into traffic. And she's grown up, she's a legal adult for fuck's sake, but she's always going to be younger, always going to be smaller. She's older than most of the kids in her class--and that sucks, like she's some kind of an idiot, like she was dumb enough to get held back. She'd like to see all those kids with the houses they've lived in since they were born, with their stay at home moms and after-school tutors--she'd like to see them manage to pass the seventh grade when they didn't spend more than three weeks in a row at any single school.

She doesn't know how Dean had managed to pass that year. She knows for a fact that the eleventh grade is a bitch, so all she can really imagine was that he'd fucked the assistant principal, and fucked her pretty damn good.

She's taller than all the other girls, too, and taller than half the boys. Before Sam got tall, she was used to being ignored. Every new school, she was just a shrimpy, mousy girl with a pudgy, boring face--not anything enough to draw much attention, and that was just fine. Now, she walks into a room and everyone looks. The girls can see right away that she doesn't fit--wrong hair, wrong clothes, wrong smell, that extra special gun oil perfume that never quite washes away. The boys just see where they would fit, what they could take, the way they always do.

It makes Sam's fingers itch to pull out the knife she keeps tucked in her bra. Most days she couldn't say who she'd want to hurt first.

**

Sam wants things that don't fit together, things that don't make sense. She wants a whole new life, a blank piece of paper she can fill in her way instead of Dad's. But she wants Dean there, too--Dean, who's been the lines on every piece of paper she ever wrote on. She wants him there, making a new start alongside her. She knows it'll never happen, not unless something changes.

She loves Dean. She's stitched him up half a dozen times, her fingers slim and nimble when Dad's were thick with exhaustion, numb from too many hours clenched tight around the steering wheel. She's stitched Dean up and made him cheese sandwiches when he was sick, and she wants to hurt him, wants him to feel pain deep down in his gut the way she does from living this life that doesn't ever fit right.

**

She prefers to keep her body hidden. The curving lines of it are weird, awkward where her body used to be flat and straight and simple. She likes baggy jeans and hoodies, long boxy t-shirts that would fit Dad. Most of the girls at school are ridiculously stupid, wearing tiny shorts and skirts and skimpy tank tops that don't cover anything and then shivering and complaining when they get cold. Sam just rolls her eyes, wants to tell them to wear some clothes, like it's some kind of revolutionary fucking idea.

Sam likes her clothes they way they are, but she sees the way Dean watches Payton when he comes to pick Sam up from work. Even with the coffee shop apron tied over her clothes, Payton's tits are always hanging out, the curves of her hips pushing out against her jeans, and out of the corner of her eye, Sam can see Dean following her with his gaze. He tracks her like a creature in the woods, and Sam feels a hard knot of jealousy in her chest.

Then Dean will look back over at Sam where she's wiping down the counters, getting the place ready for closing, and then she can relax. There's something different in the way Dean's watching her these days, and it's nothing weird, nothing wrong. Still, he looks at her, and he looks away, and she just wants him to keep watching. Keep watching until she walks away.

On Saturday, she works long enough to get a thirty minute break, and instead of spending it eating a yogurt and reading in the back room like usual she runs down the street to one of those stores the girls from school like to shop at. She picks up a t-shirt from the sales rack; it's kind of dumb, blue with some sort of dog on it, but when she tries it on in the changing room it sticks to her curves like glue. The sleeves are so short that she can see her muscles, the ones she's earned. The thin cotton stretches over her chest, nips in at her waist, flares out to cover the tops of her hips.

She wants to cross her arms over her stomach, hide even though nobody can see, but then she thinks of Dean watching her. She takes off the shirt, puts her own over-size Oxford shirt back on, and goes to pay for the t-shirt. Back at work, she shoves it in her backpack and for the rest of her shift she can feel something shaking inside her, but her hands are steady.

~~~

Dad's out on the road, big shock, and the apartment gets quiet at night. Dean's taken up reading like he never did while he was still in school, and without the TV going Sam feels like she can hear her own heart beating in her chest. She changes into her favorite soft plaid pajama pants and puts her new t-shirt on top, no bra, the cotton a strange mix of rough and soft against her nipples. Dean acts like he doesn't care that she sits down so close to him, cuddling against his side. He acts like he doesn't care, but she can feel the change in his breathing, the tension in his muscles that slowly seeps away into her own skin. He falls asleep, and she spreads her hand over his chest. She can feel his heartbeat, feel his warmth on her palm.

He wakes up, his breath catching at the new touch, and she can't help teasing him, trying to make it normal. "Getting old there, buddy." The words should be a lame joke, but as she says them she knows they sound like something else. Dean pulls away, and she catches his arm with her hand, catches his eyes with hers. She feels the moment between them, and she knows that this is when she needs to make things change. She thinks she can make him want to come with her, make him decide to leave Dad behind. She needs to go, but she doesn't want to be alone.

"Yeah, Sammy?" His mouth hangs slightly open after he finishes speaking, his face still a little soft with sleep, and she takes the opportunity. His lips are a little dry, and his mouth tastes like a mocha, and he pulls away far too quickly.

"Sammy, I can't," he says. His voice is dryer than his lips, and the bulge in his pants says that he can, he can. But his face isn't soft anymore either, and Sam pulls back, wrapping her arms around her chest against the pain building there.

"Dean--" It's all she can say without crying, but there are a thousand words she wants to say, a thousand reasons why it doesn't matter what other people think, why they shouldn't care about that.

"You're leaving, Sammy," Dean says, and she doesn't know how to argue with that.

All she can say is, "You know?" She feels like she's already lost Dean, like he walked away before she ever had the chance.

"Of course I know," Dean says, his voice suddenly full of anger, an anger Sam's seen directed at other people but not at her. Not like this. "I'm your brother." He practically spits the words, and Sam feels sick. She feels cold, suddenly, in her stupid little t-shirt, and for once Dean's warmth next to her doesn't help at all. She stands up, stumbles back a step as her socks catch on the rough carpet.

"Yeah," she manages. She's pretty sure she knew Dean was her brother before she even knew her own name. She feels guilt and anger twisting around in her chest, and she hates it, hates Dean, hates herself. "I'm your fucking sister." She sees the hurt on Dean's face, and she wishes it could feel good, wishes she could enjoy seeing her own pain transmitted like an STD. But it only feels like her own little knife, the one she left next to her bra on the chair in her bedroom, twisting around between her ribs.

She looks out the window toward the street, watches as a pair of headlights come closer and then move past them, fading off into the darkness. She looks back at the couch, and Dean's gone.

**Author's Note:**

> Remixed from [with chains upon my feet](http://velvetine01.livejournal.com/86653.html) by velvetine01.


End file.
